James
I tap and my daughter's voice replies. "Come in. It's open."
Pressing the handle down with an elbow, I nudge the door open with the tray. "Good morning," I say, injecting into my voice as much cheerfulness as I know how. "Breakfast. I thought we might eat together."
Georgie smiles from her seat at the dresser where, looking fresh and a little pink from the shower, she is brushing out her long hair. Born in my physical image, her hair as dark as mine: at least, as dark as mine used to be.
Trying not to be obvious about it, I look her over.
Still pale...
... but the dark rings under her eyes are fading...
"Hi, Dad. Yes, I'd love to have breakfast with you." She's smiling, but her voice is subdued.
"I brought croissants and coffee. Keep it light. I thought we might have lunch together later? I reserved a table for us by the picture window in the restaurant downstairs."
"Lunch? Yes, that would be great..." That not-quite-a-smile again.
Masking something...